Two weeks ago was a different story. There were plenty of excuses. The linoleum was slick. The rug no better. Socks wouldn't grip. Flexibility-limiting diapers. Too long of sleeves. Covered knees with no traction.
Your dad called you "Stumbledore," a hint at the Harry Potter-esque magical properties required to learn to crawl.
"Although, I'm pretty sure I've never put this much effort," he nods at you, "into anything I've ever done before." He lies next to you on the floor, your fitful, insistent struggles punching through the afternoons and evenings.
But two weeks later, your excuses evaporate. Instead of pushing up on your haunches, you push forward from the hip. You keep your center of gravity low, rather than letting it thwart you side to side. And a little incentive doesn't hurt. Right now, the big red Easy Button from Staples draws you across the living room floor. "That was easy," the button says when you slap it. "That was easy."
Your mom and dad move the button across the floor again, six or eight feet away. Always moving the goal posts. You spin on your stomach, realigning with the big red button. This is what you do, it's who you are right now. You're the person that has to go after it.
Now you lay under an electrical socket that your mom and dad still need to plug. You grip two of the cotton-stuffed blocks your mom sewed for you, your mouth saying, "Roh roh roh," over and over, like you just learned the first words -- the most fun words -- to Row Your Boat.
